


shibboleth

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Birthday Sex, Birthday Smut, Bottom Steve Rogers, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, M/M, President Steve Rogers, Sexual Roleplay, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-23 09:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11399955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: mr. rogers comes to washington.or: happy birthday, captain rogers.





	shibboleth

At the familiar _bang_ of his front door slamming open, Bucky Barnes, one-hundred years old, give or take, jerks awake from his nap, still too groggy—and to excited at the arrival—to complain.

"Have I ever told you," Steve says, dumping his luggage in the hallway, _again_ _,_ for the hundredth damn time, "How much I hate Washington?"

"Only about every time after you come home," Bucky says, stretching a little, and he looks at Steve fondly, even if he _did_ leave a mess right at the door, like some kind of goddamn _barbarian_ _._ If Bucky hadn't known any better, if he weren’t there, he would've sworn Steve was hand-to-god raised in a barn.

"Yeah, well, I'll say it again. I _hate_ D.C., Bucky. I hate it. Hate everything about it. Hate it," Steve says, kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie. He flops on the couch dramatically, and continues, as if to add insult to injury, "And Old Bay? Ain't that great! Don't see why they've gotta put that on _everything_ _."_

"Wow, Rogers," Bucky says, sitting down close to Steve, entirely in his personal space, "Tell me how you _really_ feel. You're gonna hurt Sam's feelings the more you keep this up."

"Sam lives in Bolling," Steve scoffs, "He's practically in the suburbs. He's practically in _Maryland_ _,_ for chrissakes."

Bucky rolls his eyes. He's been to Bolling. He'd stayed with Sam—in Bolling—whenever he would travel to the capitol. It’s not that bad as Steve, the drama hound, is making it out to be. He scoots ever-closer, all but bumping their foreheads together.

“Come on, just be glad they let you go home,” Bucky says, soft, “And just before your big day, too.”

That, somehow, didn’t seem to fix it.

“You won’t _believe_ the ass-kissing because of it! The same people who came out to revoke my rank when I came out against their _dumbbell legislation_ come up to me all smiles,” Steve fumes. He’s _really_ at it now. Bucky listens, sympathetically. “Saying shit like, _‘Oh, happy birthday, Captain Rogers! Here, have this ugly paperweight I got at the Smithsonian gift shop, now, how about making a statement about this bill I’ve proposed—’_ As if I wouldn’t remember!”

“Hey, I’m sorry, big guy,” Bucky murmurs, rubbing his hand on Steve’s thigh, absentmindedly. He’d meant to be comforting, he’d meant to be soft and loving and affectionate—but the sudden _shiver_ it earns from Steve upends that strategy. Instead, Bucky—quick-thinking and always ready on his toes—shifts position, quickly moving to straddle Steve’s lap.

 _That_ seemed to do it. All that frustration and anger dissipated the second Bucky put his hands on Steve; there was heat, yes—but less an explosion, less an eruption, but more a slow, satisfying melt.

“Buck,” Steve murmurs, his plush, pink lips parted just so. It’s a halfhearted, fragmented little noise, devoid of any trepidation, of any protest. If anything, if Bucky knows Steve at all—which, after seventy-something years, he’s pretty sure he does—it speaks to something resembling desperate, to this gripping _need._

And Bucky, good man he is, does what he can to oblige.

Slowly cupping Steve’s face, Bucky bridges that distance between them, pulling Steve into a kiss. It starts off as a soft thing, just barely the brush of lips against lips; just barely a touch. But just as soon as they break from that first contact, they come back together, Steve chasing Bucky’s mouth with the same desperation as a man on his dying breath.

He tastes like airplane coffee—too bitter, almost burnt—but Bucky can’t get enough of Steve. He pulls away, earning a soft little whine, only for those complaints to dissipate as soon as he continues kissing Steve—this time, along his jaw, on his pulse point, down the side of his neck. Instead of whining, Steve’s breath begins to hitch, and his hands find their way underneath Bucky’s shirt, those long fingers skimming up Bucky’s side, grazing his abs, grabbing at his chest. As much as the press castigated him, as much as know-nothing politicians and talking heads called for his execution, half the country would have envied and commended Bucky on his position, with Steve Rogers—actual national treasure—all but _melting_ into his touch. Not putty in his hands, but pretty damn close.  

“Hey, hey,” Steve manages to string together, his voice low and his pupils blown wide. Bucky stops, pulling himself to look Steve in the face. One hand is still grabbing a handful of Bucky’s chest, but somehow, he just can’t seem to stop staring at Bucky’s lips. The boy always _did_ wear his heart on his sleeve. “Do you want to, you know—?”

“Yeah—yeah, of course,” Bucky murmurs, already knowing where Steve is going. Finishing the sentence—finishing the _thought_ —before Steve even has the words. "I—uh. I'm always down."

Steve nods. An affirmation. A pact. "Alpha plan or Bravo plan?"

"You know either way, it'll end the same," Bucky says, already eyeing the buttons on Steve's tight little dress shirt. "You decide."

"Let’s flip for it," Steve says, rummaging clumsily in his pocket for change. He eventually pulls out a quarter, taking a few receipts and wrappers out with it. Any other time, Bucky would comment on it, but Steve is already flipping the coin, and the fate of its landing is all Bucky can focus on. It falls decisively, square in Steve's open palm, and he flips it, letting the coin fall square onto the back of his hand. The decision couldn't be more climactic—the fate of their night is, quite literally, in Steve's hands.

He pulls away, slow, revealing their decision. Heads. Alpha plan, it is.

"What's the safe word?" Bucky asks, his nerves already buzzing with anticipation.  

Steve chews this question over for a second, clearly giving it some thought.

" _Shibboleth_ _,_ " he says, eventually. Bucky grins, wide and toothy. Wolfish, if there were any other word for it.

"Clever there, Rogers," he says, and Steve beams, clearly proud of his choice. "I like it."

**\---**

President Steve Rogers sits in his office. It’s early July, and the fireworks have long since petered out, replaced, instead, by the familiar sounds of D.C. in the summer. It’s late in the nation’s capital, but he’s far from alone in the White House. And _that_ is exactly what he is relying on.

“Barnes,” he calls out, his voice carrying easily through the room and into the next.

“You called, sir?” asks James Barnes, Chief of Staff for the Rogers administration and the closest, most personal advisor to the President. He steps into the room, closing the distance between them with a few quick strides. He stands in front of the desk, straight-backed and chin up, like a soldier at attention, waiting for his commanding officer, waiting for _the_ commanding officer, to give his command.

“Do you know what today is, Mister Barnes?” President Rogers asks, his voice particularly level. Barnes can feel the President’s gaze on him, as if to size him up.

“It’s July the fourth, sir. Independence Day.”

The President raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“And—” Barnes starts. Pauses to think. Then, like a freight train, it hits him. Realization. “It’s your birthday, sir.”

The President rises from his chair. He’s tall, broad-shouldered and wasp-waisted, cutting an intimidating figure in that well-fitting black suit. Barnes lets out a little breath.

“James,” the President starts.

“Sir, I—”

“Cut it with the formalities, Barnes. How long have we known one another?”

Barnes wastes no time in a reply. “Since Columbia Law, si—uh—Rogers.”

“That’s right,” says the President, as he begins to pace—or, more accurately, as he begins to _prowl._ “Since Columbia Law. Since before I was Senator for all of New York State. Since before my first campaign. Since when people still called you _Bucky._ We’ve known each other a long goddamn time, James, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” Barnes says. “Yes, we have.”

“And yet, you forgot today was my birthday.”

That cuts like a knife. “Steve, I—”

“Hey. I get it. You’re a busy man,” the President says, though there’s a lilt to his voice that sounds loaded with _something._ “But you’re my _friend,_ Barnes. The least you could do is get me a gift.”

Barnes doesn’t avert his gaze. Not from the President, no matter how ashamed he might be. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t reply—he simply stands there. At attention. Like a good soldier. Trying hard not to admire how Rogers’ suit jacket strains over his impressive biceps.

“However—“ President Rogers says, slowly, methodically looking him over. Barnes can’t take his eyes off the way the President’s long, dusty blond eyelashes brush up against his cheeks. He swallows, hard, struggling to maintain compsure. “You _can_ give me one thing,”

“And what’s that?” Barnes asks, those words coming out low and breathy, far from the semi-professionalism he’d intended.

“Remind me why they call the Chief of Staff the most powerful man in Washington,” Steve murmurs, closing the distance between them, beginning to undo the knot on Bucky’s tie. He looks up at Bucky, blue eyes sharp, alert, and all but boring into Bucky’s soul. “Think you can do that for me, Barnes?”

A silence. A beat. Barnes, mulling over the offer. An offer he’d waited for ever since the first day of orientation at Columbia Law School.

“Well?” President Rogers asks, raising his eyebrows. Barnes lets out a breath, like a man ready to jump, ready to take a plunge.  

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Barnes growls, pulling the President in by his hips, all but wrangling him into a kiss.

He tastes like burnt coffee, but Barnes isn’t kissing for the _taste._ The kiss is desperate and messy, the two of them going at each other like drowning men finally blessed with the chance to breathe. President Rogers shrugs his suit jacket off, carelessly tossing it to the side. He is hyperfocused on Barnes, on kissing him, on _touching him._ As Barnes pulls away, Rogers nips at his lower lip, a soft whine bubbling in the back of his throat, as if to beg of him, _Don’t stop. Don’t leave._

Barnes flicks his gaze along President Rogers’ body, all taut and halfway to shivering with anticipation. As if compelled by some external force, and perhaps too aggressively, Barnes pulls President Rogers’ shirt open, exposing that thick chest in a messy hail of buttons. He doesn’t hesitate to grab one of the President’s pecs, kneading and groping and running the pad of his thumb along one of those perky nipples. This earns a soft gasp from President Rogers—far from the powerful oration and clever negotiation of the _Commander-in-Chief and Leader of the Free World._  

With a shaky, though determined hand, President Rogers undoes Barnes’ belt, quickly, desperately moving to pop his fly, on a single-minded mission to get things moving further, to escalate the situation. And Barnes—Chief of Staff, closest confidant, and _best friend_ to the President of the United States—responds with reciprocity, his hands trailing down from Rogers’ _excellent_ chest and down to his belt, working deftly and precisely, until the President is all exposed, painfully hard and precum already beading at the tip.

“Look at you,” Barnes murmurs, running his thumb along the tip of Rogers’ dick, earning a series of breathy noises, each one becoming more shallow, more urgent. “Look at _you._ ”

“Buck,” _Steve_ whines. He’s breaking character, he’s slipping, as if the stimulation and sensation is all enough to knock him out of their little game. He’s lost his way, lost in the fog of _hard_ and _hot_ and _good._

“What is it, _sir_?” Bucky— _Chief of Staff, James Barnes—_ asks, steering Steve back on track. “What do you want me to do?”

Steve— _President Steve Rogers_ —watches him, pupils blown and chest heaving and chewing that pink, plush lower lip so hard it damn well might bleed. “Fuck me.”

“What was that?”

“Fuck me—I—I want you to fuck me,” President Rogers says, all but a whimper. “Please, Barnes, _please._ ”

What he wants to say is _Yes, Sir._ That’s what his first instinct is; that’s what springs to his lips, at first. But he quashes that base instinct down, instead, squaring his shoulders, looking the President in the eye, and demanding, curt and low: _“On the desk.”_

He doesn’t so much wait for the President to move as much as he _moves him,_ strong-arming Rogers facedown and bent over the sturdy, mahogany desk; his perfectly-shaped ass on full display.

“Lube,” Barnes says, not a question, not a request, but a command.

“Drawer, it’s in the drawer,” Rogers replies, sounding impatient. Sounding like he’ll start whining at any time. Barnes pulls the lube out of the President’s drawer, popping it open with a quick _snap._ The lube is warm and slick and quickly coats his fingers in thick, wet globs.

Barnes runs his right hand, lubed and ready, down the length of Rogers’ shaft, cupping his balls briefly, ever-briefly, before slowly, gently, working to finger his hole. President Rogers breathes, squirming, desperate to gain purchase.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Barnes growls, planting his left hand on Rogers’ hip, anchoring him to the desk. President Rogers stills at that command, the risks of Barnes stopping far outweighing any fleeting benefits of disobeying. Barnes slips a second finger in Rogers, fingering and stretching him, earning more desperate, half-subdued noises from the President. As Barnes continues, fingering Rogers deeper, stretching him further, those little noises shift as well, blooming from whimpers into full, breathy moans.

“Please—” President Rogers whimpers, “ _Please, Bucky, please.”_

Barnes—Bucky—registers that Steve broke character again. It registers with him, not for the first time that night, that Steve slipped. But with Steve in front of him, open and _begging,_ he can’t bring himself to quibble or care. No, this time, he doesn’t want to get Steve back on track. It doesn’t _matter_ if he gets Steve back on board with their little play-narrative. No, instead, Bucky—as Chief of Staff Barnes—just uncaps the lube once more, generously slicking his dick, feeling just about as desperate as Steve.

“You want this?” he asks, pressing the tip of his cock against Steve’s hole.

“Yes,” Steve groans, his knees all but trembling, “I need you—I need _all of you._ Please, Bucky, _please_.”

As if he could ever say no to that—to his _Stevie,_ open and begging for him.

Bucky enters Steve slow and steady, earning a low, shuddering little moan. Even with all pretense of role or narrative discarded, Bucky doesn’t ease up on Steve. He begins to build up a rhythm, rough and steady, his grip on Steve’s hips still a firm, constant anchor. His left hand still digs deep into Steve’s hip, the ridges between metal plates leaving ridges on soft, familiar skin.

Steve is tight and hot and noisy and _mouthy_ , that confident swagger of _President Steve Rogers_ having quickly devolved into incoherent murmurs and moans. As Bucky fucks him, rolling his hips rough against Steve’s ass, those noises get louder and louder, reverberating against the cold grain of the desk. It sends Bucky into a new rhythm, jerking and _deep,_ working in time with Steve’s ever-desperate, ever-louder noises. It’s near loud enough to wake up the whole damn neighborhood _._ And all Bucky can think, all he can string together through the fuzz of _yesandtightandsteve_ is _Good. Let the world hear._

He’s getting close, he can feel it coiling white-hot, deep within him. Bucky shifts, anchoring his right palm on the nape of Steve’s neck—roughly, but with tremendous care—his left hand wandering to Steve’s aching dick. As he begins to pump Steve’s dick in his palm, stroking in time as he fucks him, Steve becomes almost breathless, having screamed himself out, and faced with a new barrage of stimulation.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chokes out, sounding just as close as Bucky is, “Bucky—Bucky—”

“Use your words,” Bucky murmurs, squeezing Steve at the base of his cock. He lets out a breathy gasp, almost sounding like he’s choking.

“Gonna come, Buck,” Steve manages, letting out a gentle _fuck_ as Bucky runs his hand along Steve’s shaft.

“Then come,” Bucky says, jerking his hips against Steve. He punctuates that by fucking him deep, fucking him down to the hilt—and Steve gasps, suddenly going all wordless and incoherent again. He lasts all but a few brief moments before he’s gone, spilling all sticky and spent into Bucky’s left hand. Bucky lasts just about as long once Steve’s gone, giving a few last deep, erratic thrusts of his hips, his mind a continual loop of _yesyesyes_ and _SteveSteveSteve,_ before he comes, hot and buzzing and _rough_. When he pulls out of Steve, they’re both a complete mess. Their suits are beyond repair, their office is in need of a major deep-cleaning, and the both of them look the very definition of _debauched._

In other words, a successful kickoff to Steve’s birthday—to the Fourth of July—if there ever was one.

**\---**

“You broke character.”

Steve looks up at him, wide-eyed and owl-like, before smiling, sheepishly, the beginnings of a blush tinging the tips of his ears pink.

“Sorry. I just—got ahead of myself, I guess,” Steve murmurs, playing with Bucky’s hair. They haven’t left their little home office. Bucky is sitting in the comfortable desk chair, and Steve is perched in his lap, twirling at loose strands of Bucky’s hair like some sort of lovestruck cat. If it were anyone but him, Bucky would’ve thrown ‘em across the room by now. “I missed you.”

Bucky smiles, wide and warm. “You were gone like, a week. Week and a half, max.”

Steve shrugs. “Still missed your ugly mug.”

“Hey now,” Bucky says, feigning offense.

“Hey _what?_ In case you didn’t figure it out by now, I kind of _like_ your ugly mug,” Steve says, and this time, it’s Bucky’s turn to blush. Steve huffs out a little laugh, and pecks Bucky on the lips—no heat in it in the slightest, not like their other kisses that night, but filled with emotion, filled with _love,_ nonetheless.

They sit there together in a comfortable silence for a second, Steve playing with Bucky’s hair, and Bucky enjoying the comfortable weight of Steve in his lap. They’re both still catching their breath, and the pressure of maintaining pillow talk was never a necessary convention. Not between the two of them.  

“You’re a good actor. Could make it to Hollywood, if you wanted,” Steve says eventually, almost absentmindedly. He’s burrowing his face into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, finding a comfortable position to rest his head. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

Bucky laughs, soft. A chuckle, almost. “Only you and every other member of the Barnes family above the age of twelve.”

“Well, they were right. Put you on one of those TV dramas, you can be the son of a president, or something.”

“Yeah, sure. Lemme just turn in my ammo and put my two weeks in.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling at him, chagrined and so clearly, blatantly in love. Not for the first time, Bucky wonders how he got so lucky. Not for the first time, he looks at Steve and feels his stomach doing flips, as if he were young again, and deep in the throes of puppy love.

There are noises on the street outside, a small group of people cheering, and the familiar rapid pop of firecrackers. Steve turns his head, looking from the window, to the desk, and suddenly, turning all of his attention to Bucky.

“Check it out,” Steve says, almost in awe. “Twelve midnight. It’s official. I’m ninety-nine years old.”

Bucky smiles at him, warm and full of love.

“Happy birthday, Mister President,” he murmurs, voice breathless and _low._ He grins the grin that drives Steve wild and pulls him into a kiss, gentle and deep and with just the right amount of teeth.

Neither of them expected to make it that far, deep into the twenty-first century, with almost two-hundred years between the two of them. But there they were, tucked in _their_ office, in _their_ apartment, in _their_ little space of New York, carved out of brick and memory, just for the two of them.

They were old, the both of them, older than either one of them had the right to be. But somehow, in their comfortable Brooklyn brownstone in a century that they were slowly making their own, that felt right.

Like the closest thing the real world had to fate.  

**Author's Note:**

> if you're wanting to know what kind of nerdlord i am, it's the kind that writes a steve/bucky fic where they roleplay the president and white house chief of staff, and names said fic after a fun word that is also the title of an episode of the west wing.
> 
> (which, in case you're wondering: a [shibboleth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shibboleth) is a word or phrase used to covertly denote ingroups from outgroups. for example, americans pronouncing the letter “z” as “zee” versus other english speakers pronouncing it as “zed.” it's essentially a word that means "safe word.")
> 
> i started writing this fic on november 4th, 2016, and, for reasons that i hope are pretty clear, did not have the motivation to pick it up again until i realized i wanted to write birthday smut for the fourth of july. that said, there is another chapter i have planned for this, but i can't say when i'll be able to finish it, between all the creative projects i'm juggling. stay tuned.
> 
> happy 99th, bud. you don't look a day over ninety.


End file.
